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o _is_ it?" Ruben called sweetly.
Muffled by the door: "Harlan Jackson, Mentat Security. Put that thing
away before you kill somebody, for Christ's sake."
Josh returned to Terrible Ted, again laying his rifle on the carpet
beside him.
Ruben opened the door, and Harlan walked in, a tall, intense black man
in his early twenties. Stepping into the room, he pulled off his scarf to
reveal the silver scores and insignia pinned to his black jacket, identifying
himself, and scanned the room -- the setup, the young mutants and their
physical attitudes. He sniffed the air and added that to his observation.
Satisfied, his eyes returned to Ruben.
By now Ruben had read and interpreted Harlan's scores, and he stood up
a little straighter and ran a hand through his hair. "Dude," he said by way
of salute.
"Friendly neighborhood secret police, makin' a house call," Harlan said,
surveying the room again more closely. "We have to keep an eye on you
assholes to make sure your activities don't threaten the safety and security
of the Foundation and the blah, blah, blah." Again his eyes fell on Ruben.
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